


What's Mine is Yours

by cptlewnixon



Category: Band of Brothers, Generation Kill, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, like a really slow burn y'all I'm so sorry, not really tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9425888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptlewnixon/pseuds/cptlewnixon
Summary: Small towns really aren't that welcoming of strangers, are they? Especially if they show up dressed as the personification of Death itself.





	1. At the Beginning

            Many people in the small town in which Andrew Haldane lived idolized him at some point in their lives, to a certain agree. But the fact of the matter is, though he’s a lovely man, was no idol; he was human. This is something everyone knew, and still could look up to him without placing him on a pedestal. This feat would grow difficult, however, for a certain man named Eddie Jones.

            Andrew Haldane – though known by everyone as “Andy”, or occasionally as “Ack-Ack” – was a well-loved and important member of the community. He lived on an orchard and grew various fruits that he would sell at the market in town and make a living off of what people bought from him. Because of his outstanding work ethic, politeness, and just all around being a generally kind human being, he found that his produce almost always sold out in just a few days. Supply and demand sure was something.

            Now in addition to being a kind and polite man, Andy was very handsome and had an infectious smile, and a dazzling personality, is what all the girls will tell you. He always had time to make small talk, chat for a few minutes, and always seemed to remember their names and details about their lives that he could have easily forgotten in the weeks between the last time he saw them. And yet he never did forget, and that’s another reason people liked him so much. Andy didn’t have to remember the most minute details about people, and he would, just because he could. That’s the kind of person he was.

            Because of Andy’s charm, he frequently found himself being asked by grown men when he was going to marry, because aside from John Basilone, Andy was the most eligible bachelor in the town. _You’re not getting any younger,_ he’d be told numerous times a week, _and neither are my girls._ Andy would laugh and shrug it off and say something akin to “maybe someday” or “eventually” he’d marry, and if he was going to marry then by god, it would be on his own terms, and he’d marry for love. He was holding out for it in a small town such as his.

            All small towns are alike in many ways, with the most noticeable one being that they were all stuck in their own ways and traditions, and outsiders were generally not welcome, unless it was a family member or friend of someone in the town. This town was no exception. So when a mysterious man, all dressed in black, riding a pale horse, rode into town one warm January day, people were understandably suspicious. You would be, too, if it was nearing 90 degrees in January – _what a ridiculous heatwave!_ – and a man came into your town dressed like Death himself.

            He wore black from head-to-toe; a black hat, black gloves, black shirt, black pants and boots, and what appears to be something like a cape or possibly a poncho is also black. The only part of his face you could see were his eyes, as the rest of his face was covered up by a bandana. The eyes of this man were intense, expressive; just by looking at them one could see that he had been through a lot in his life, and just by looking at him, one could tell that he would most likely not be sharing said things with anyone any time soon.

            For the first few days he was in town, he didn’t stay anywhere with a roof over his head, and that’s because no one trusted him, this being a small town and all. So he pitched a tent by the entrance to the town and slept in there, using what little food left he had to feed his horse and only eat a little himself. He would walk the horse out to a public well and get water for it and for himself. Somehow, with all the people watching him, no one managed to ever see under the bandana.

            His appearance is one reason people distrusted him, and another is because, like small towns tend to be, everyone was a bit superstitious. A man in black rides in on a pale horse? Death must be near, and this man the omen of bad things to come. No tavern or saloon opened up their doors or bars to him, and no one would speak to him, either. People would hurry themselves along if he happened to pass, or cross the street altogether as if he was a black cat, or a rat carrying the plague. No one opened their doors to him and no one offered hospitality to this man.

            Except there was one man that did, and his name was Andrew Haldane.

            Andy meeting him was a simple enough event. He had left to go collect his earnings from the market, and when he came back, he found this man in black trying to find something to feed to his horse. The man would not admit to anyone that he had run out of food, and Andy could recognize that, so out of kindness, he whistled to the man and when the man looked up, Andy tossed him an apple. The man said a muffled “Thank you” and expected Andy to be off, but he stayed for a moment, watching.

            “Do you not have anywhere to stay?” the man asked.

            The man looked at him, surprised that he had been spoken to by someone in the town after everyone ignored and shunned him.

            “No,” he finally said. “I don’t. I’ve been sleeping in my tent here for the past two nights now.”

            Andy shook his head in response. “And to think that we like to pride ourselves on being the nicest people in the county.” He took a moment to think and looked at the man’s current situation, analyzing it all, taking it in. Andy had the ability to make important decisions on a moment’s notice, and this time was no different.

            “I’ll tell you what: how about, until you get your bearings, you can come stay at my farm for a while?”

            The man – henceforth known as “Hillbilly”, because when a man asked his name as he entered town, that is the name he responded with – was shocked. He was going to move on the next day because no one wanted anything to do with him, which was fine by Hillbilly, because that’s all he’s been doing: moving, not settling down at all.

            “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you like,” Hillbilly replied. “I’d rather stay here with my tent and horse.”

            “Well,” the man scratched his face in thought, “I don’t think you have any food left, and neither does your horse. Please, let me just help you out.”

            A common reason that a mysterious drifter would dress in all black and ride a pale horse is that they know very well that people would not want to get close to them because of how they resemble Death, in the Biblical sense. This was the main goal of Hillbilly: to be disregarded by all, except for when necessary to him, such as to rent a room to sleep in and other things he might want or need.

            A friendly, accommodating man in this small town was something that Hillbilly, based on his own experience in other towns, was not expecting. And yet here this man was, on his horse looking down at Hillbilly, offering him a room and food, and quite possibly, a hot shower.

            Hillbilly said, “I was planning on leaving tomorrow, you know. Wouldn’t make much sense to let me stay in your house for a night.”

            “People do that with inn’s and taverns all the time,” the man replied.

            He didn’t want to admit, but this guy had a point.

            “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just stay here in my tent. I prefer being under the stars, anyway,” Hillbilly replied.

            “Suit yourself,” the man said. “Good luck with the rest of travels, wherever you may be going.”

            And off Andy went back to his house, though accompanied by a feeling that told him that he would be seeing that mysterious drifter again very soon.

            Hillbilly watched him go, and he himself was also accompanied by a feeling that told him he would be seeing the polite man again very soon.

            To prove a point, almost to himself, that he could get a room in an inn or tavern if he wanted, he made a mistake that someone seems to make in all westerns: he walked straight into a bar after completely throwing caution to the wind.

            Though the bar was lively, it had quieted down to a low murmur, something cliché that always happened in those western movies, but it happens to mysterious drifters in small towns in real life, too, like it happens the ones in the movies. Hillbilly sat on a stool in the center of the bar and he waited.

            Wait he did, because it was a full half hour before anyone decided to regard him. Though it wasn’t in the manner Hillbilly was hoping on, it was the one he expected.

            “Hey you, in the all black!” shouted a slightly inebriated patron from the back of the bar. “What do you think you’re doin’ here in this town of ours?”

            Hillbilly turned to face the man. “Currently I’m trying to get a drink, and you look to have too many.” He smirked under the bandana. “Mind sharing?”

            “I can’t understand you with that cloth in front of ya face!” the man bellowed. He walked up fast to Hillbilly, and Hillbilly met him halfway. Having been in these kinds of fights before, he knew what he was doing. At least, that’s what he liked to believe whenever he got involved in them.

            “I said you look like you’ve had one too many,” Hillbilly reiterated, getting up in the man’s face. This was easy to do, because he happened to be about two inches taller than the man that had decided to say something to him. He added, “I asked if you would mind sharing your drinks. It would be awfully kind to do that to a dangerous drifter like me.”

            This is where Hillbilly makes a mistake.

            The saying goes, “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight”, but a lesser known saying is, “Don’t bring your fake gun which is just your fingers in your pocket made to look like a gun to a bar brawl in a small town because the other person might actually have a gun.”

            Hillbilly had not heard the lesser known saying before. To counter his “gun”, the man pulled out an actual gun; Hillbilly did not expect this because he hadn’t heard the lesser known saying. Luckily, he has fast reflexes, so he shoved the man’s hand over when it was pointed at his chest and only ended up with a skin wound from a close-range gunshot. After that, he dashed out in a flurry of black and the man was restrained by two other patrons. Before the inebriated patron with a gun could go after Hillbilly, he and his horse were gone, and Hillbilly was on his way to see the man that had offered him a room before.

            Somehow, he managed to find the kind man’s house, which should have been easy because it’s the only one with a large, sprawling orchard behind it; everyone else has barns or vegetables planted, to some extent, or flowers.

            Without moving his injured arm too much, Hillbilly slid off his horse and climbed the steps to the front door of the man’s horse, and knocked four times. Then he waited.

            After a few seconds the door opened, and the man stepped out. Realization came across his face as he realized he had seen this guy before, and once you had seen him, it was kind of hard to forget him.

            “You change your mind?” the man asked, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

            “I’d like some help with an injury, first,” Hillbilly said, and with his free hand, took his hat off, then his poncho, and showed Andy his minor wound, which was just a graze, really. Hillbilly was lucky here, because it easily could have been a whole lot worse.

            Andy widened his eyes in surprise. “Something tells me this was partially your fault,” he said, opening the door and waving Hillbilly in and closing the door behind him. “Something also tells me that whoever did this was drinking.”

            “You’re right on both counts,” Hillbilly replied, being ushered to the kitchen table. He was told to “sit down” for a moment as Andy ran upstairs to the medicine cabinet and grabbed some hydrogen peroxide and gauze. He came back down and saw that the man had taken off his gloves and also his bandana, so he could now get a good look at his face. Despite knowing, or rather assuming, that the guy had been on the road for weeks, months probably, maybe years, he still had a clean-shaven face, something not easily managed when you spend your days wandering from town to town.

            Andy pulled up a chair and Hillbilly, almost as if by reflex, stuck his arm out to Andy. “Just get it over with,” Hillbilly said, and Andy knew he was talking about the disinfecting of the wound. Though the sting was initially painful, Hillbilly didn’t let it bother him, because he’d felt pain far worse and far deeper than he imagined a gunshot ever could.

            After a few moments of silence, Andy spoke. “So, I suppose if you’re going to be staying here for a short while, we should introduce ourselves. I’m Andrew, but everyone calls me Andy, except for Vera Keller.”

            “Hillbilly” was the reply Andy got. “People call me Hillbilly.”

            “I’m going to assume that’s a nickname,” Andy responded, picking the gauze up and wrapping it a few times.

            “You’d assume correctly.”

            Another few moments of silence passed between them as Andy collected the supplies and went back upstairs with them, and Eddie took some time to briefly observe his surroundings. It seemed to be a nice enough place.

            When Andy came back downstairs, Eddie spoke up. “I’ll take the barn,” he said. “I’ll stay in there for the night.”

            A look crossed Andy’s face that was a mixture of confusion, surprise, and… was he restraining a laugh?

            “No, you’re not sleeping in there with all the animals,” Andy told Hillbilly. “I’ve got a spare bedroom that’s never used, so you’ll be staying there.”

            Hillbilly was about to speak up again when Andy cut him off, saying, “And there’s a bathroom you’re free to use and you’ll have some privacy. I don’t think you’ll be afforded any of those luxuries if you stay in a stall with the horses.”

            The thought put a small smile on Hillbilly’s face. “If you insist,” he responded.

            “I do insist,” Andy told him. “The fridge is open to you as well, if you want anything to eat. There’s plenty of feed for your horse, too, so don’t worry about it eating too much, okay?”

            “Okay,” Hillbilly answered. He went back out front and took his horse around the side of the house where Andy pointed him in the direction of the barn, which admittedly was a bit hard to see in the fading daylight.

            He got his horse situated and went back in, and found that Andy had left out a plate with a sandwich on it for him, and some other things that he could help himself to. Andy wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but Hillbilly could hear the shower running upstairs, and assumed that’s where the man was.

            For once in a very long time, Hillbilly was grateful to be staying somewhere with an actual roof over his head.


	2. Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making someone breakfast and helping them with yard work is a good way to bond, right?

As a drifter, you learn quickly not to be indebted to anyone, lest the person you become indebted to asks for a “favor” of sorts and shows up covered in blood after you fled the incident at the traveling circus. Fortunately for Hillbilly, this had not happened – again – but he now found himself owing something to Andrew Haldane for letting Hillbilly stay in his home and eat his food and use his shower.

When he first woke up, Hillbilly was confused as to why he saw a ceiling fan above him instead of the top of the inside of a tent. Briefly, he was scared, but very briefly, as he remembered what had occurred the day before, as evidenced by the gauze he saw wrapped around his arm that was stained red some.

He threw the bed covers off of himself and made his way to the bathroom that was located in between his and Andy’s bedroom. Andy’s bedroom door was closed and Hillbilly took it as a sign that he was still sleeping – it _was_ 5:14am, after all, as told by the wall clock in the bathroom – so Hillbilly made sure to be as quiet as possible. A mysterious drifter he was, yes, but an overtly rude person was something he was not.

Hillbilly took the gauze off and ran the wound under some water to clean it and dried it off before putting a large band-aid over it, something he found in the cabinet in the bathroom. He told himself that in a day or so he’d take it off and let it air out so it could heal properly, and most likely scab over. It was only a graze really, and the skin was broken, but it’d heal up just fine, probably leave a scar.

As Hillbilly looked in the mirror, he realized that he’d have to do something to repay Andy for letting him stay. He’d probably help around the orchard for a day or so, cook and clean. The easiest right now was to start cooking something for Andy for when he woke up, and then he could clean the dishes and do some work for him before moving on the next town, wherever it was.

He had spent a lot of nights sleeping in a tent under the open, starry sky, and he spent just as many nights without one, leaving himself out in the open and vulnerable to whomever decided to take advantage of him and his situation. He thanked the powers that be after every one of those nights for keeping him alive, even if it was just for another day. God knows he’s been in a lot of unfortunate and unpleasant situations before, and somehow managed to come out swinging each time. Hillbilly didn’t know how he’d made it this far in life without dying, or why, but he knew there had to be a reason, even if he didn’t know it yet.

Opening the refrigerator door, Hillbilly decided he’d make eggs, with toast and bacon for breakfast, as a way to say “thank you” before starting on yard work. He got out what he needed, and tried oh-so hard to get the pans out that he needed before cooking. The keyword here is “tried”, meaning Hillbilly partially succeeded in getting them out, but he still made some noise and desperately hoped he hadn’t awoken Andy.

Sure enough, though, fifteen minutes later, Andy came down the stairs in long pajama pants and a t-shirt, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and not even bothering with his bed-head right now.

Over his shoulder, Hillbilly asked, “Did I wake you? Pans aren’t exactly the quietest thing to get out, you know.”

Andy shook his head. “They’re not, but I think it’s the cooking that woke me up as opposed to the pan noise.” Andy looked up at the clock and saw it was only a few minutes past 5:30, and looked out the sliding glass door and saw the first faint rays of sunlight coming up over the horizon. This is what woke Andy up in the morning, but he was glad that it was the smell of food cooking that did it this time; he appreciated the change of pace, even if it wasn’t going to last long.

Hillbilly set the plate of food in front of Andy along with an orange that he grabbed from one of the hanging baskets near the fridge. “Hope you like scrambled eggs,” he said. “I’m none too good at making them over easy.”

“It’s fine, Hillbilly, I do,” Andy replied, picking up the orange and started to peel it, careful not to get any of the spray in his eyes. He had been there before and the events that followed after led to numerous bruises, cuts, an almost twisted ankle, and a house that nearly caught fire.

Andy didn’t like thinking about it much.

“You want any coffee?” Hillbilly said, opening the containers on the counter to find which ones had the coffee grounds in them. He hadn’t found it yet, but at least now he knew the sugar was in a large, black container and that the tiny container housed the salt and not sugar. This was a distinction he was glad he made early on, lest there be some regrettable accident later on.

“Please,” Andy answered, adding, “Far left, in the corner.”

Hillbilly looked back briefly at Andy before grabbing the slightly-larger-than-the-sugar-container container and popping it open, using the small wooden spoon provided to measure out each scoop into the white filter that was in the coffee maker. Admittedly, it had been a long time since he had had coffee, or made it for that matter, but when it filled the glass pot he remembered just how much he missed the smell. It reminded him of better days, of days long since passed. He hoped that someday he could associate it with something better than his past.

“Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink,” Andy told Hillbilly after swallowing a bite of eggs. Hillbilly was just about to ask Andy where they were, or rather he was going to start looking and hope he got lucky on his first try. Hillbilly took two out, one for each of them, and scooped some eggs and bacon onto his own plate while waiting for the coffee to finish being made.

Hillbilly set his own plate down on the table first before he brought the coffee over, though carrying those things together was an easy feat for him, thanks to that brief stint on the coast at a seafood restaurant. He hopes he never has to see a lobster again, or smell one for that matter.

He asked Andy if he wanted anything in his coffee and with a wave of his hand, Hillbilly knew he had said no, and sat down opposite of Andy and started eating himself. There was fair bit of restraint of Hillbilly’s part not to just devour everything in front of him, an orange also included, because he hadn’t eaten anything substantial like this in some weeks now. Months, maybe. He couldn’t tell anymore; days, weeks, and months blended together for him like two colors in a watercolor painting. Plus, Hillbilly wanted to look civil in front of Andy, and not like a wild animal. Why this mattered so much to him he didn’t know, and wouldn’t for a long time.

The breakfast between them passed in silence. Oranges were peeled and eaten, coffee was sipped, eggs were stabbed at and consumed. It was quiet, but in no means awkward. They had each experienced awkward silences while eating with someone or with many people, but this was not one of those times where they could say it was awkward. There’s a certain amount of calm afforded to people that are awake to see the sun rise above the horizon and start to warm the day, and this calm was something that Andy and Hillbilly got to experience together.

When they had both finished and all that was left to do was drink the rest of their coffee, Andy cleared his throat and asked, “So what brought you here?”

Hillbilly was a bit caught off guard by this question. “What?”

“How did you come to the town? How’d you get here?” Andy reiterated.

“By horse,” Hillbilly replied with a smile smirk, and that got a quiet chuckle out of Andy. “I just wander from town to town,” he said, giving a serious answer. “I just pick a new direction to walk in every day and then I go that way. That’s how I got here.”

Andy pursed his lips in contemplation. “Did you pass through any of the other towns that are nearby?”

Hillbilly shook his head in response. “I didn’t even _know_ there were other towns around here, except this one.”

They sat in silence again for a few moments before they both got up simultaneously.

Andy started saying, “I’m going to tend-” right as Hillbilly began to say, “I’ll clean-” They both stopped and waited for someone to speak up. Andy was the first one to break the silence.

“I’m going to get changed and then I’m going to go tend the farm a bit,” Andy told him.

“I’m gonna clean up here and then I’ll be out to help,” Hillbilly replied. Andy opened his mouth to say something, but Hillbilly cut him off. “It’s the least I could do.”

“I appreciate all the help I can get,” Andy responded, a smile on his face. He handed over his empty plate and downed the last bit of coffee in his mug before also handing that over to Hillbilly.

He took the plates, silverware, and mugs over to the sink and set them down on the counter beside it. He took a dishrag that was among others in a drawer near the sink, got some dish soap from under the counter, and set to work.

Before he went outside, Andy walked over and said, “I don’t know if you have any work boots with you, but if you do, you should wear them. If not, you look about my size and I have a spare pair for you to borrow. And don’t worry, they’ve only been worn once, so they’re not going to smell terrible.” Hillbilly smiled at this and said his thanks before getting back to cleaning the plates off.

Through the window in front of him, Hillbilly watched Andy go over to the barn to get a few things, and the partially open blinds allowed for him to watch Andy’s moments and not be spotted. Where the horses stayed was in a building adjacent to a shed that made up the barn. From the things Andy brought out, Hillbilly could tell that all that was needed was picking ripe fruit, watering the plants, some weeding, and maybe a few other things. He took a towel that was hanging up by the sink and dried the silverware off before putting them on the dish rack and going upstairs to get changed.

He opened his pack up and grabbed a pair of old, worn jeans, an old t-shirt, and his spare pair of shoes that actually happened to be work boots. Not that he would have minded borrowing Andy’s shoes, he just prefers to wear his own things.

Quickly dressing and just as quickly tying his shoes, Hillbilly was out the door and realized that _dear God it is hot for January._ He didn’t look at the thermometer after he was out the door, but if he did, he would have seen that it was a warm 85 degrees. He’d been in hot places before, in places much hotter than this, and in all black as well, but this was just ridiculous. More ridiculous than the time he was housesitting for someone and almost destroyed the oven because a baking sheet was left in it that had aluminum foil wrapped over it. Why he didn’t check before preheating the oven he will never understand, and why it wasn’t removed from the oven before his coming over he won’t understand either, but life has to have some excitement and mystery to it. At least, that’s what he likes to tell himself when something goes horribly, horribly wrong.

He made his way over to Andy and asked what needed to be done, and was told a list of things that he’d be handling, and Andy told Hillbilly he could feed the horses, help water plants on one side of the orchard, pick some of the ripe fruit, and help chop up some wood.

Now, one thing to know about Hillbilly is that he’s incredibly good with animals. Somehow, they trust him immediately, much to everyone’s shock. He can even tame the animals that he’s told couldn’t be tamed, like the drunken bar patron celebrating their divorce who is one vodka shot away from dancing on the tables to a pop song from the 1980’s. Those animals are not the ones we will be talking about in this story, however, and Hillbilly would like to forget that he’s ever encountered such people. Doesn’t he still have a scar from that one time? He couldn’t remember, not like he wanted to.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of _that_ memory, Hillbilly walked over the horses and climbed over the fence to see them. He knew how often horses had to be fed, and wanted to make sure they trusted him first before he would do that, and they did. Andy, watching from afar, found this impressive, and thought about when Ray Person would visit to see them and–

Well, it wouldn’t go too well.

Andy soon found himself with Hillbilly as company, helping out with picking the ripe fruit and watering the plants as he went.

“I see that chopping up the wood didn’t take you long,” Andy commented.

Hillbilly shrugged. “I guess you could call me a natural at yard work.”

This got a smile out of Andy. “You know a lot about farm work.”

“I grew up on one.”

“I guess that’s why they call you Hillbilly.”

Hillbilly smiled in return. “I guess that’s why. I’d also say my accent, but that’s just me.”

They both laughed at this, and for a moment, for a very brief second, the laugh of the other person reminded them each what friendship felt like. That was something neither had felt in a long time.

The day went on and fruit was picked and water, weeds pulled up, horses fed, and by the time they were done the sunset was falling below the horizon. Neither had noticed how cool it had become, nor that it was getting dark. Only when everything was finished for the day did they realize how much time had passed. Finally, after sitting down for a few minutes and taking a break on the back steps by the sliding glass door, Andy said, “Come on, I’ll make dinner.”

Hillbilly looked at him, still a bit out of breath from all the work and more than a bit sweaty, and replied with a meager, “What?”

Andy smiled and shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

Hillbilly smiled back.

Dinner was simple enough, like breakfast, only with water to drink instead of coffee. Also like breakfast, this meal, too, passed in silence, with no words exchanged between them. Because they both forgot to eat lunch, they eschewed social niceties and so – as Ray Person would do, or as a wild animal that hasn’t eaten in days would do – eat a bit more sloppily than they normally would. It wasn’t as sloppy as Ray would eat, nor was it completely clean, either: it was a fair balance, if that could be said about how they ate. They had worked hard that day and quite frankly, they felt like they like deserved this a little bit.

They wiped their hands off on their napkins and wiped their mouths off and sat in silence for a few more moments.

Andy cleared his throat and broke the silence, saying, “I’ll clean this all up, since you did it this morning. That seems fair enough.”

“It does,” Hillbilly replied, nodding. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to excuse myself and clean up and then turn in for the night.”

“I don’t mind one bit,” Andy told him. “Thanks for your help today. It’s a lot to cover, but it’s how I make a living.”

“No problem,” Hillbilly responded, getting up as Andy did and giving him his plates, a parallel to what was done this morning. “I’ll try not to use all the hot water, since I figure you’ll want a shower, too.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Andy remarked, with the comment coming out in a way so Hillbilly could tell Andy was smiling, even if they weren’t looking at each other. “Goodnight, Hillbilly.”

“Goodnight, Haldane,” Hillbilly said, and climbed the stairs and went off. He realized when he got to the top of the stairs that using Andy’s last name might have sounded a bit rude, but it was too late now to say anything. He sighed, and went off to the bathroom.

Much like Hillbilly paused at the top of the stairs after realizing what he said might not have been polite, Andy paused in the middle of the kitchen and chewed on his lip, thinking. He had felt something then, just briefly, but couldn’t quite recall what he had felt, nor exactly when he felt it. All he knew was that it happened and now it was gone. Andy shrugged and brushed it off, thinking that maybe it was nostalgia, of a longing for days back when he was younger.

Andy couldn’t say definitively what he was feeling at that time, but later on, he would think back and know just what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think Andy was feeling there at the end, you guys? It's not just nostalgia...
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for reading! If you liked it, please leave a comment and/or a kudos. It shows me that you guys like what I'm doing and it encourages me to continue writing!! You can also direct those towards my Tumblr: cptlewnixon.
> 
> Thanks again to Jess for proofreading this chapter, and who will be proofreading all chapters for me. I hope they don't kill her.
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you all have a lovely day!!


	3. Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hillbilly offers to fix an old guitar Andy has, and it brings up some memories he's not sure he wants to remember.

Some people in the world are lucky enough to be graced with the talent of being able to play a musical instrument. Some of these people may become composers, concert pianists, part of a band, or maybe teach if they can tolerate children enough. These people can also become mysterious drifters who left their family and wander the country, going from place to place and play guitar to make a living. The latter is Hillbilly.

However, there are others that aren’t as graced with musical talent, and are what is called “tone deaf”. They are unable to read sheet music, cannot play an instrument and don’t know how, and they only thing they could remotely play was the triangle. Andrew Haldane is one of these people.

It wasn’t like he _knew_ he wasn’t good at playing an instrument, at least not at first. He didn’t learn that until he bought a guitar and tried to learn how to play it. Granted, he had tried to teach himself, because no one else in the town really knew how. The person he bought it from didn’t know either; that’s why they sold it. Andy researched some things about how to tune it and how to hold it, and which chord was what. He knew that he wasn’t doing too well with it, and so did everyone else.

Andy liked to share things with people, and he shared with them how he was learning to play the guitar, and everyone wanted to hear him play it. He said he didn’t know much and could only play a couple chords, but it didn’t help that he still got a lot of them confused and didn’t really know which were which. In his defense, he spent a copious amount of time trying to learn them, but it didn’t play out in his favor.

He figured it was a sign to stop when he went to play and all of the strings broke at the same time.

Since then, it had been put away up in his attic with other old boxes, collecting dust, forever a reminder of how he tried and failed. Sure, Andy had done things and tried and failed before, but this hit him a little harder than the other incidents. Maybe it was because this was the first thing he tried to master that made him happy since he came here. Maybe it had something to do with his parents. In either case, he wasn’t quite sure why it upset him for a time. Eventually, he moved on, like Andrew Haldane always does. Sometimes he’ll go up in the attic for something and see the guitar and think about trying it again, but he can’t since he doesn’t know how to restring it or even where to get the strings to do it. And it must have gotten knocked around a bit while some boxes were being moved, because there were some chips in the guitar, now, some dents here and there.

When Hillbilly went up into Andy’s attic to bring a crate down to put some fresh fruit in, the last thing he expected to see was a guitar. It was worn and dusty and a bit broken, but it was still a guitar; it even had the strap still on it from the last time Andy used it. Curious about its past, Hillbilly brought it down with the crate, intent on talking to Andy about this disused instrument.

Andy sees the crate before he sees the guitar and is halfway through thanking Hillbilly for bringing it down when he notices the guitar in one hand and stops talking.

“Wow, I haven’t seen that in a long time,” Andy remarks.

“It sure is beautiful, though,” Hillbilly replied. “Where’d you get it?”

“Bought it off a guy that got it from a friend and didn’t know how to play guitar. I tried to learn but it didn’t go over so well.”

Hillbilly was confused. “How did it not go over so well?” he inquired. “You play it drunk? Because I’ve been there before and it’s not pretty–”

“The strings broke the first time I tried to play something,” Andy interrupted, smiling. “Although playing it drunk does sound like something I don’t want to remember.”

“Well, I know how to play guitar, and this baby needs some love, so do you mind if I try fixing it up a bit?” Hillbilly inquired. “Strings can be a bit hard to come by but I’ll figure something out. I’ve learned to make-do with what I have.”

“How could I forget that you, a practical stranger, has lived off the fat of the land?” Andy said. “Probably thinking about living on a ranch with a place to call home and raising animals and such.”

“Tell me about the rabbits, Andy.”

This comment made both of them laugh. Hillbilly hands Andy the crate and he takes it, fiddling with it in his hands for a moment before turning away and going to the kitchen to put some fruit in there to take to the open market in the center of the town.

The market itself was surrounded by two other towns and was a good distance away by car or truck; it took at least 20 minutes, sometimes half an hour if it was foggy because the roads were curvy and there weren’t many road markers pointing them to their destination.

Andy remembered a guy from the next town over named Ray that, while a good driver, would like to have fun on the curvy roads. Sometimes he’d get a bit too carried away and end up turning the car over. He’d always tell his friend Brad that it’d “never happen again” and yet…

Whoever fixes Ray’s car after every accident, Andy would think, must be swimming in cash by now.

Hillbilly cleared his throat. “So, uh, do you mind?”

Andy turned back around. “What?”

“Do you mind if I fix this up? It’s just gonna keep collecting dust up there, and I could put it to good use.”

Andy shrugged, then grinned. “Go right ahead, as long as you can teach me to play.”

Hillbilly returned the grin. He did not know that Andy Haldane was tone deaf and could not play an instrument to save his life, so he agreed. It would take some time, repairing the guitar, but Hillbilly liked to keep his hands busy.

He’d always been like that, needing something in his hands to mess with. It doesn’t matter if it was doing hard work, eating, riding his horse, making a fire, building, or playing guitar; he needed to keep his hands preoccupied or else hands would always go to…

No, not _that_. Something else. He didn’t like thinking about it but his mind always returned to it.

“I’m going to run to the market and set these up at my stall,” Andy said to Hillbilly. “I just need to set them up, is how it works.” This earned a perplexed look from his friend, so Andy continued. “Every piece of fruit gets a sticker so you know who owns it and is selling it. You take it up to the register and they write it down, how you much you bought, and keep track of it. The money that’s received to pay for it gets divided at the end of the week and given to the proper people.”

“That sure is different from how I’ve seen other places do it,” Hillbilly mentioned.

“Our town is unique, and we pride ourselves on that,” Andy told him. “It’s far from perfect, but it’s the place we choose to call home, and it’s the only home some of us have. For others, it’s the only home they’ve ever known. It isn’t perfect, but we love it anyway.”

Hillbilly playfully shoved his arm. “Okay, okay, enough with the sappy words. Take your fruit and get going, you ham.”

Andy pushed his arm away with a chuckle. “Alright, I’ll go. I’ll be back soon. You want anything?”

“I don’t know what they have there.”

“It’s a bit of everything there. Some people specialize in different things, some have a variety of things they sell.”

Hillbilly thought for a moment. “Strawberries would be nice. I’ve missed how they taste.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Andy replied. “I’ll see you in a bit, Hillbilly.”

“See ya, Andy.”

Andy went out the front door, the screen door slamming behind him. He made a note to have it fixed so it wouldn’t slam and make loud noise.

After Andy left, Hillbilly went out onto the front porch with the guitar to get a better look at it in the natural light. It needed some new strings and some cosmetic repair, but he was sure it could be fixed and tuned just fine. He began to loosen the strings, a process he was familiar with.

He had repaired guitars in his past for other people, and sometimes for himself. He took good care of his guitars, the few that he had, so he didn’t need to mess with his own too often. Sure, there’d be proper maintenance after he’d perform for people, which is how he made money wandering from place to place. Fine entertainment for a fine meal and board, that was always the agreement he made. He got to do what he liked to do, and he made money from it; surely there is no better job than that. He always loved playing guitar, Hillbilly had only had two guitars in his life: the last one was destroyed in an accidental barn fire, for which he was erroneously blamed; the first one was a gift from his parents.

His parents. God, he hadn’t thought about them in a long time. In a way, he was glad he no longer had the first guitar he ever owned; it was too much of a reminder of his parents, and it was destroyed when he had to leave the house.

Hillbilly paused for a moment, the breeze making the wind chimes sing their tune and adding some kind of noise in the background of the quiet landscape. Somehow, he always came back to the day he left home. No matter how hard he tried to block it out, it kept returning to him and bothering him, like a mosquito; it kept draining him no matter how many times he swatted it away. Slowly, he reached into his back pocket and pulled it out: the letter.

In one way or another, when Hillbilly had been holed up in a cabin during a torrential downpour, he had received a letter from his mother. He had no earthly idea how she would have found him, or how she was sure the letter would have gotten to him at that location, but it did. He would joke with her and tell her that she had a sixth sense for that kind of stuff, always knowing where her kids are. She said it was her job as a mother.

When he first got the letter, he figured it really was. He didn’t know what to do with it: burn it? tear it up? cry? get angry? read it? Hillbilly didn’t rightly know, and told himself that someday he would.

Time after time, he found himself looking at the letter, his name in the familiar cursive script on the front, the return address in the top left (he noticed they hadn’t moved), stamps in the top right. He could recognize his mother’s handwriting just by feeling the letters and the way they were formed, each letter flowing into another. It was written in the type of cursive where you have to squint your eyes a bit and read what’s written out loud and guess what word comes next based on how the word looked. After many years of practice, he had mastered it, but after many years of not seeing it on a daily basis, he struggled to understand the writing for a moment. Then he knew.

Here he was again, sitting on a porch, guitar between his legs, leaning forward and staring at the letter. He took a deep breath and flipped it over, thinking. He gazed at the seal on the back, pursed his lips, and flipped it over again. Hillbilly returned the letter to his back pocket, deciding against opening it. Someday he would do that, but today was not that day.

Trying to clear his thoughts, he went back to loosening the strings, with Andy pulling up shortly after he went back to work. _God, how long was I looking at that letter?_ Hillbilly thought.

Andy noticed that something changed in Hillbilly’s visage between when he left and came back. He was noticeably upset about something, that’s for sure, but Andy couldn’t tell what about. Had someone come by and said something rude to him?

“Everything okay, Hillbilly?” Andy asked climbing up the porch, fruit crate in hand, along with some bags of various food and produce resting in the crate. “You look a bit distracted. How’s the guitar doing? Didn’t break under your touch did it?” He let out a half-hearted laugh.

Hillbilly inhaled deeply then exhaled. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Guitar’s fine. Only damage done to it was what you inflicted on it.” He regretted the words after they came out. That sounded too harsh, fantastic. Just great.

Much like Hillbilly’s mother had a sixth sense for knowing where her children were, Andy had a sixth sense of knowing when someone wasn’t being completely truthful, or at least knew when something was wrong. He could tell that Hillbilly was definitely distracted about something, but chose not to push any further. Andy himself had been in that mood before, many times before in fact, and knew not to badger Hillbilly with questions about how he was feeling.

“Alright, pal,” Andy said with a sigh. “Let me know if you need anything.” He opened the screen door and closed it softly behind him this time, knowing it would be loud if he just let it close on his own.

Sometime later, Hillbilly opened the door and leaned inside, spotting Andy on the couch reading something.

“Hey, uh,” Hillbilly cleared his throat. “What are we doing for dinner tonight? Chicken? Fish? I know you brought some other stuff in with you from the open market.”

Andy had decided upon dinner the moment he came back inside from the open market, and decided that there needed to be something different for tonight.

“We aren’t eating here tonight,” Andy said, looking up from his book and at Hillbilly.

Hillbilly was confused. “We’re going out to eat?”

Andy nodded. “We are. I’ve got some friends that are having some kind of barbecue or cookout for the town because we couldn’t have one over New Years. Lots of snow, wouldn’t have worked out.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but Hillbilly was a touch nervous about meeting some other people in the town. He thought of the bullet graze he had received on his first day in town and didn’t want a repeat of that. He must have reached for it without his own knowing, because Andy spoke up again.

“They’re good people, I assure you, and I think you’ll like them,” Andy elaborated. “Trust me.”

With that, Hillbilly relaxed a little bit. Andy had mentioned to him the other day that people seemed to trust him a lot for some reason, and figured it was just because he was nice to everyone. He reasoned that if these people were friends of Andy’s, probably the most well-liked guy in town, then they couldn’t be too bad.

“Sure, if you insist,” Hillbilly replied.

Andy smiled his wide, notable smile; everyone knows it and loves it. “Great. We’ll leave in an hour or so. Is that okay?”

Hillbilly nodded, giving a small smile in return.

Andy returned to his book before looking back up again and catching Hillbilly before he went back out. “Oh, one last thing?” Hillbilly opened the door back up and leaned back inside.

“Yeah?”

“I hope you like Cajun food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading!! Leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed, and I hope to get the next chapter up sometime in the next week or so. Have a lovely day!!

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of twenty is here! I hope you all liked it, and if you did, please leave a comment and/or a kudos, as both are welcome and it tells me that you guys want more!!
> 
> Feel free to also direct these things to my Tumblr: cptlewnixon.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you to Jess (buckcompton on Tumblr) for proofreading the chapter for me, and thank you all for reading!


End file.
